Dolls and Despots
by Kiski
Summary: Devils. Kings. Puppeteers. Younger brothers; Family politics. Two years later, the Host Club persists- and Tamaki insists on visiting. But this year, Ouran has adopted a new pet- and she comes with more than instant coffee. Spoilers! TamakixOC, KyoyaxOC
1. Echopraxia x French Bisque

'_**Essential Reading' Note:**__ Oh fuck, an Ouran fic. _

_Typical. Two words in and Kiski's already swearing._

_Well, we all see where __**this**__ is going. (Shit, fuck, Jesus Christ on a Crispy Crunch, bitch ain't goin' nowhere but hell on a hardtack hammock.) _

_**This story contains spoilers from the manga: **__In the last couple of volumes, Hunny and Mori graduate, Tamaki reconciles his relationship with his grandmother, he and Haruhi finally get together, Haruhi is revealed as a woman and then goes to Boston for a year of school-funded overseas study- only to be followed by the entire Host Club without warning, of course. There's even a sign on the Third Floor Music Room's doorhandle saying 'The Host Club Goes Abroad!' Pretty adorkable._

_The romance in this piece of fiction operates on the reasonable pretence that most relationships do not end in marriage. The timeline is approximately one year after the end of the manga- Hunny, Mori, Kyoya and Tamaki have all graduated and gone on to more worldly things. Mostly. It's verifiably impossible to make Tamaki act like a sensible human being, and that is another major factor in this weird tale- with the Host Club persisting after Tamaki's graduation, he would feel compelled to meddle in it whenever possible. _

_This takes aspects from both __manga and anime**: **__For those of you who don't remember them, **Yasuchika Haninozuka** and **Satoshi Morinozuka** are Hunny and Mori's younger brothers, respectively. The physical descriptions of them are based on the anime; though mentioned briefly, they don't appear in the manga. _

_For the benefit of all of us: Satoshi's more cheerful and sociable nature and admiration of his brother compelled him to join the Host Club- and his and Hunny's overbearing good intentions dragged the begrudging and over-serious Yasuchika into the mess. They're the only two new members; otherwise, the line-up is as before: Haruhi, Kaoru and Hikaru, with Renge still attending to her… 'managerial duties.' _

_Uki Doki Memorial does __**not**__ count as a valid research tool; I don't care what anyone says._

_**Rating:** Mature because I swear like a motherfucking sailor and so do some of my characters. _

_**Synopsis:**__ Devils. Kings. Puppeteers. Younger brothers; Family politics. Two years later, the Host Club persists- and Tamaki insists on visiting. But this year, Ouran has adopted a new pet- and she comes with more than instant coffee. __**Spoilers! **__TamakixOC, KyoyaxOC _

_**Disclaimer:**__ Hatori Bisco is the sole proprietor of the __**Ouran High School Host Club **__manga series; Viz Media claims partial ownership of the __**Ouran High School Host Club **__animated series in North America. I am not affiliated in any way with either party._

**_Dolls and Despots _**

_**Episode One:**  
>Echopraxia - A Face of French Bisque<em>

Lucie Charlotte Oake, nineteen.

An arguably talented singer- good control, good range, strong sense of pitch.

A deep love of the art.

She guessed that it wasn't really arguable at all- acceptance to one of Japan's most esteemed private educational facilities was a fair indication of that.

And beyond acceptance, she was on_ scholarship_.

A scholarship extended only once a year to only one extraordinary student.

A scholarship typically only extended to one extraordinary _local_ student.

A scholarship generously extended across half of the world to her by Chairman Suoh himself.

It didn't matter that she'd already graduated from high school; even if it was just one year in the music department, any connection to Ouran was a winning ticket into the business she'd longed to be in since childhood.

It was a business that took more than talent to break into.

She would have to have been incredibly stupid to refuse.

She was not.

Her future was bright, but in the more lukewarm present, she wished that some of that natural talent and hard-earned proficiency would extend a generous finger into her social skills.

Even just fluency in Japanese would do.

The hard fact was that even after almost two months into her first semester and a warm welcome from the majority of her classmates, there was still an indelible wall alienating her from even the most obliging of the Japanese students.

That wall was composed of a handful of things:

Lamentable shyness. Most of her existing friends were hyper-social creatures defined by their unusual tendency to simply adopt others without any choice on behalf of the adoptee; the few who defied this definition were just kindred victims of these eccentric personalities.

Naturally docile and obliging, she'd always allowed herself to be spirited to and fro between dynamic family and dynamic friends. Unfortunately, she'd left both behind- all but one of her audacious souls- and her deficiency was quickly becoming painfully obvious. Even that one soul, her last threshold of audacity, couldn't revise this; the twenty-three year old was teaching classes, not taking them.

And, at only twenty-three, she certainly wasn't qualified to be teaching at Ouran.

Here, Lucie was alone.

And, worse and worse, the language barrier held no promise of relief. Despite her quickly increasing ability, she was constantly caught off-guard by colloquialisms, unspoken tensions, and the frequently surfacing common knowledge that every culture holds unwritten.

She didn't want to risk the kind of major offense that could be so easily incurred by an unknowing comment. Ultimately, however, that meant that her already lagging motivation to join the social fray was further impaired.

Generously, her nervous impairment took the liberty of insinuating itself into every aspect of her daily life. Though by no means poor herself, Lucie found herself perpetually puzzled and awed by the sheer lavishness that both composed and followed Ouran- unfortunately, that scale of grandeur also seemed to apply itself to a large portion of the student body.

This was not something that assisted her in overcoming her shyness.

The result was discomfiting, but by no means tragic. Her days generally passed in a state of surreal detachment punctuated by a few rewarding or uncomfortable moments in which she grew closer or farther away from her classmates.

Today seemed to be the same.

Beside her in English- naturally, a subject she could have slept through with no ill effects- sat Momoko Tamiya, a sweet-faced girl with bleached brown hair who endeavoured to make friends with the same urgent awkwardness as she did- an occurrence that frequently caused both of them to lapse into quiet companionable giggling, followed by awkward silence. There was a mutual understanding that between them they shared an integral common _something_ that would eventually break the ice- but, as of yet, they hadn't found it.

Today, she and Tamiya were trying again.

It was during this that it became perfectly obvious that whatever it _seemed _like, today was _not_ the same.

Lucie Charlotte Oake's first reaction to Tamaki Suoh was a strange mixture of puzzled amusement and girlish infatuation.

The second was because the young man who had just burst into her classroom was a very handsome specimen of his sex and wore a suit very strikingly.

The first was everything else.

His abrupt entrance was marked with such a flurry of unabashedly flamboyant gestures- all joyously sweeping arms, glistening blue eyes and expressions of heartfelt emotion- that were she less entranced, she would have been surprised to see that her classmates seemed remarkably unfazed by the sudden intrusion. In fact, they seemed strangely accustomed to it.

Whether fortunately or unfortunately for her, Lucie, if she had even noticed this fact at the time, would not have had, and did not have, any idea as to _why_. Her classmates, concerned as to how a foreigner would react to the concept, had neglected to inform her of the existence of Ouran Academy's legendary Host Club.

But, as previously stated, Lucie did not notice any of these subtle emotional shifts- or lack thereof- in the people around her, nor did she draw any conclusions therein.

Instead, Lucie was watching Tamaki in a state of awe arguably more rapturous than that which overtook even his most dedicated fans- the only_ truly_ arguable fact of this chapter.

So enraptured was she that she almost failed to notice the rapid beeline he made towards one of her previously unknown classmates.

Almost.

Tamaki instantly identified himself as someone who made such approaches impossible for those nearby to miss.

"Haruhi! My Haruhi!" He said- no, sang, he was fairly _singing_ at the sight of her- and, demonstrating surprising strength for one so slim, swept the poor unassuming brunette out of her chair and up into the air.

Lucie was unsure how to feel about that. Despite understanding that it was perfectly reasonable that a man- and a man who looked like _that_, no less- she had encountered less than twenty seconds earlier was otherwise engaged, she couldn't suppress the familiar sinking feeling of inadequacy in her stomach.

It was that feeling she hated the most. No matter how long it had been; no matter how much support she had or how many reassurances she received, she couldn't shake the unhappy sensation of having been bested by the whisper-thin thighs of the girl who was expressing exasperation a hand's-breadth from the ceiling.

She hated to admit it, but that was an integral part of the wall, too.

Japanese girls all seemed so _thin._

"Tamaki-senpai, please put me down," the girl- Haruhi, wasn't it?- deadpanned.

Tamaki Suoh- the long-established blonde-haired poster-child of whimsical misinterpretation- missed the point. Dropping the petite brunette only to sweep her up again and around with added exuberance- remarkably like a doting father playing with a giggling toddler- his face showed no trace of awareness that further jostling was not what she had been requesting.

"Haruhi!" he cried joyously, holding her close to his chest, "My Haruhi!"

Haruhi's deadpan expression hadn't shifted. Her thin legs and arms hung limp in his tight grip. "Senpai, please put me down."

He did.

His demeanour changed with such speed that she had to blink to comprehend it.

He was staggering backwards, away from her, away from Haruhi, in pained, lurching movements- like a person stabbed viciously but still struggling in vain to keep his feet. His back hit the windowsill, his arms spread, splaying out to grip the polished marble edges of the window with a sort of shivering desperation that made Lucie profoundly concerned. The late afternoon sunlight behind him made him a dark shadow; his joyful countenance was gone, leaving his expression teetering dangerously on the edge of despair. "Haruhi, why must you address me so coldly?"

She didn't even hesitate. "You're still my senior, senpai."

The theatrics of his distress far outstripped those of his joy.

His hands flew up in what could only be a vain attempt to blot out the sun-like wrath of a disapproving god; his head arched back beneath them, eyes squeezed shut in what seemed to be indescribable pain; his lean, suit-clad torso sunk towards the floor, pulled down by long legs inexorably folding under the weight of his agony.

Haruhi sighed.

It was at this point that Lucie noticed that, aside from Haruhi, herself, and- to her surprise- Momoko Tamiya, no one else was watching.

She turned to the quiet girl with the bleach-lightened caramel hair inquisitively.

The two of them discovered the _something_.

The ice finally broke.

_(Dolls and Despots)_

Lucie tugged on Momoko's sleeve urgently.

"Isn't that..?"

Momoko turned- peered in- almost giggled; the puffed yellow shoulders of her dress shook with silent laughter.

"That_ is_ Fujioka-san," she affirmed quietly. Her dark eyes smiled under shrugging black brows; an expression of silent apology that was quickly growing familiar. "I'm afraid I'd forgotten to mention it; I'm sorry, Oake-san." Lucie reassured her quickly- perhaps even slightly impatiently- and beseeched her to call her by her first name.

Momoko smiled again, but it was with a confused mixture of discomfort and tentative joy. Lucie wondered anxiously if she'd inadvertently done something wrong.

She hadn't.

The young brunette bobbed her head in gentle concurrence. "I'm sorry," she repeated, "…Lucie-san." Lucie laughed at the idea of being anything so formal as a '_Miss Lucie'_ and then implored her to continue her original thought. Momoko bobbed again.

She explained; Lucie struggled.

"Fujioka is… uh, excuse my rudeness… Fujioka-_san_'s a… cross-dresser? And everyone knows? I... but… she seems so _normal,_" she protested, feeling the confusion flit across her face.

Another of Momoko's subtle little laugh-smile-apologize moments. "I know it sounds strange; maybe even stranger to a foreigner such as yourself." A sheepish little amendment. "But I assure you that it's true. It seems that Fujioka-san is not very attached to her feminine identity," she explained, "and it was originally thought that she was a young man." A look of even more poignant sheepishness. "…A mistake that was perpetuated by Suoh-sempai."

One that had only been corrected a little over a year before, preceding her semester of overseas.

Lucie battled confusion.

A baffled "What?" escaped her mouth before the intended "How could he _do_ that? Why didn't she say anything?" and then a "But if_ that's_ why, why is she _still_ dressed like a boy?"

Laugh, smile, nod. A mounting flush of vicarious embarrassment.

Explaining the attachment of the female portion of the student body to Haruhi's male persona was a difficult task, even for the most straight-forward and unabashed of speakers.

For the irretrievably shy and tongue-tied Momoko Tamiya, it was a harrowing experience.

It was with admirable effort- effort that went unthanked by a Lucie entirely too confused to do any thanking at all- that she carefully detailed Haruhi's position of debt in the Host Club, the climbing incline of her relationship with Tamaki, the sharp, traumatic fall of its end- initiated, of course, by the steadfastly realistic Haruhi, whose judgement had called into question the practicality of caring for _two_ ardent practitioners of melodrama whilst pursuing a law degree- and the girl's decision to maintain her dubious position as a male host despite her now debt-free existence.

Lucie's head spun.

In class, Haruhi had been wearing the same buttery yellow silk and frothing tulle as Lucie herself. Now, she was wearing the boy's uniform- the striped tie peeking out from between the lapels of her periwinkle blue jacket- the immaculately pressed black slacks hanging straight on the girl's thin frame- _'Merino wool_,'Lucie mused suddenly, identifying the fine fabric with a trained eye.

A very expensive and very high-quality uniform.

A perfectly average and level-headed seeming young woman.

Her train of thought skidded off-track again.

"People still…" She searched for the word and couldn't find it. She sent Momoko a helpless look. Another silent Momoko apology. Momopology, her brain provided nonsensically.

"Designate," she provided helpfully.

Bafflement. She could feel it on her face. In some ways, she understood; in others, she absolutely didn't. Normally, Lucie approached such things with an instinctive reaction and a careful mulling-over of reason, but the sheer and sudden volume of oddity she'd exposed herself to over the last few hours was starting to feel overwhelming. She shook her head helplessly.

Momoko looked on helplessly.

It was a very helpless moment.

The sudden pain of a hard shove jolted her out of her confused reverie; another pair of yellow-clad girls pushed past, one already with her hand on the doorhandle. The second sent her a photographic moment of scorn- a briefly visible brown eye, sheltered by sweeping black bangs, contemptuously narrowed.

She shrank back from the music room. Momoko mirrored her reflexively before sending her a tentative look of concern.

Lucie smiled unhappily at her before glancing through the door, still ajar, once more.

She'd go in one day, she told herself.

That day would not be today.

_(Dolls and Despots)_

Something fundamental had changed in Lucie's life.

Though she'd found herself consistently unable to muster the courage to enter the bustling third music room, she and Momoko had gone back several times that week to peer in at the goings-on within.

Both hopeless romantics to the bone, they'd bonded quickly. Their shared weakness for the sickeningly cute and kitschy allure of the Host Club- especially apparent this week, as its various themes all seeming to share a swoon-inspiring common thread of returning heroes- had revealed to them a huge range of overlapping interests. From there, the gauze of detachment had begun to lift.

Lucie's days at school suddenly seemed to flit by like short words in a sentence- essential and ultimately forgettable but somehow dear. She spent her lunches on the grounds, instead of the cafeteria, enjoying the cooling fall air. She was sometimes late to her vocal lessons. She texted Momoko in Mathematics. She accidentally burned things talking to her in Home Economics. She feared retribution from the teachers.

She worried less.

People suddenly seemed more like people and less like classmates.

The chairman's son, returned to Ouran for some unclear business on behalf of his father, was not involved with the stick-legged Haruhi Fujioka of the Host Club.

Not anymore, at least.

It wasn't as though it mattered. It was personal. It was just reluctance. It was an unmentionable something in that girl's seemingly boneless petite frame. It wasn't anyone's fault.

Momoko noticed. Momoko insisted that Haruhi was, indeed, a very nice girl. Momoko assured her that Haruhi's nature was not one given to cruelty or scheming. Momoko inquired, visibly concerned, about Lucie's reticence on the subject.

Lucie politely declined to talk about it.

She'd go back there one day, she promised her.

That day would not be today.

_(Dolls and Despots)_

Friday.

Lucie felt a strange pang of regret at the prospect of the weekend. It was a foreign feeling. The weekend usually heralded relief for her; a brief lifting of the curtain in which she could pretend that she hadn't left home. Two days to stay home. Two days to cook familiar food in; two days to fill the apartment with familiar smells.

Two days for Jordan to berate her on her lack of social life.

Two days for Jordan to try and usher her out into the city, out among people; two days for Jordan to try and fill the holes in her life with just one new friend.

She wasn't annoyed to discover that Jordan was right. She'd already been resigned to that. Jordan was usually right when it came to things like this.

Lucie moved her fingers in absent-minded circles, pushing outwards from her nose across broad cheeks. The foundation had a light, almost creamy feel to it; she wondered briefly if the Japanese formula was different from the North American one.

The colouration was a little different, she noticed; slightly darker. She wondered if that was surprising and decided that it wasn't. She'd been surprised- _delighted_- to find it in her shade. It wasn't too dark. _'It could just be the lighting.'_

Blush. Pink. Always pink. She didn't feel complete without it.

Eyeshadow. More pink. She was feeling a little more daring today. It wasn't as pink as what she'd worn at home- _'hot pink when we were celebrating- or was it turquoise?- God, the things I missed out on when you were around'_- but it was pink.

Eyeliner. A flick up at the corners; easy and quick. A habit she'd picked up from Jordan. She didn't draw the wings out quite as far as her roommate did, but they were there. _'How long has it been since I had to use my own brush for this? I should make sure this isn't expired…'_

Fake eyelashes. She didn't have to dare for these. Familiar feathery synthetic fibres under her fingertips; it was beautiful, familiar alliteration. The instant they were on, she realized how naked she'd felt without them.

Mascara. Open-mouthed, head tilted back so the bristles of the brush wouldn't touch skin and leave pinprick points of black below her eyebrows.

'_Damn it.'_

Cotton swab and spit. Blending with her fingers. She could see the pink patch of semi-exposed skin, but no one else would.

Lucie sat back and took stock.

She still startled herself sometimes.

The triangular point of her chin; the edge of her jaw. _Heart-shaped_ was the term. It still caught her off-guard. Sitting cross-legged in front of the mirror, she saw a long-haired stranger with narrow shoulders and thin wrists staring back.

Staring back with large, familiar eyes. Round greens, golds and browns; hazel-flecked irises sheltered by eyelashes- fake and real alike- swathed in shiny black.

Dark hair, the colour of coffee with a dash of cream. Shiny, too. It was almost waist-length, now. She remembered when the hair behind her ear had been just peach-fuzz; regretful regrowth.

She hadn't been able to imagine the _now_, back then. She wished she couldn't remember the _then_ in the now. It seemed unfair, somehow.

Her finger caught between tightening ribbons as she tied Ouran's red bow around her throat; she had to stop. Retie. Whisk her finger out of the way before the knot skewed. The tails of the bow lay flirtatiously on the white collar of her uniform.

Friday.

Lips. Pink, but not too pink. Jordan would tell her that she looked like an advertisement for cotton candy if she was too pink.

It was Friday.

Pink eyeshadow; black eyelashes.

Friday wasn't so bad.

Pink lips.

She could do Friday.

_(Dolls and Despots)_

Friday-

The day of departure- of ultimate abandonment- of impending despair.

Like a singing cry of mourning let loose by his beloved, _la belle_ _Notre Dame de Paris_, Friday's last bell rang with a condemning sound of finality.

Tamaki Suoh had spent the past week in paradise.

Now, in the last hidden grotto- in this tenuous pocket of warmth- in the last of the few places left on his beloved Mother Earth where the sweet strains of Eden still filtered, unheard, through the air like undrinkable ambrosia, Tamaki was holding his last supper.

Haruhi wasn't impressed.

"Senpai, it's only the weekend."

Her cruelty cut a cold swath through his shroud of love.

"We'll still be here on Monday. You will, too."

Talons of blistering cold burned deep into his tender heart.

"Didn't you say that you were helping your father for the next two weeks?"

Icicles were forming in the frigid cavern left within him.

He heard her sigh, watched her turn.

A spark of light- the flint-spark of righteousness- the fire of indignation.

"_Haruhi!"_ he cried desperately, staring up at her from the floor. "To be two days away from beloved disciples- how can you expect me to survive without the healing prayers of my apostles of love? Haruhi!" he wailed, reaching for her receding back with a shaking hand.

Today, his dramatics went largely unnoticed.

A spectacularly unobservant human being, Tamaki Suoh was as easily distracted as a child and often as enraptured by his own theatrics as Lucie had been.

As such, he failed to notice the obvious on a fairly regular basis.

Today, 'the obvious' was a visibly perturbed Yasuchika Haninozuka and a decidedly unreadable Satoshi Morinozuka, both of them wrapped in creamy beige swatches of thick cloth.

As accustomed to partial nudity as any serious practitioner of martial artists, the increasingly grumpy, heavily sweating younger Haninozuka's discomfort seemed, instead, to be based in the fact that his glasses were sitting abnormally. The reason why wasn't difficult to guess.

Suffocating Yasuchika's feet, heavy black hooves, split like toes. Below his wrapped waist, hiding muscular thighs, dense brown fur; above, skin.

On either side of his head, displacing tousled brown hair, huge, fancifully curling horns.

Very fancifully.

Yasuchika's satyr horns were curled so fancifully, in fact, that the formidable points sat parallel to his cheekbones, pushing the arms of his glasses insistently upwards.

He corrected them again, scowling.

Yasuchika Haninozuka was not impressed.

Satoshi Morinozuka's opinion of the current theme was less obvious.

He was buried, head and shoulders, inside an enormous and elaborate Minotaur headpiece. If Tamaki had thought about it, he would have wondered how Satoshi could see.

In fact, he would have wondered how Satoshi could _breathe._

Tamaki did not think about it.

Tamaki did not often think about such trivial things as _breathing_.

Instead, he crawled along the floor after the still uniform-clad Haruhi, complaining bitterly.

"Haruhi, in this, my final hour, you would refuse me the joy of seeing my beloved daughter, Aphrodite, in all of her beauty?"

He reached for her with failing strength, a mere ghost in his radiant purple robes, heedless of himself, heedless of others, heedless of the fact that she was entirely too far away for him to actually reach-

She wasn't listening.

A snigger behind him.

It could have been one particularly ill-intentioned snigger or just two in perfect sync; with_ them_, there was no telling.

A head of gingery hair stole silently around him, creeping into the right edge of his vision.

"Aphrodite _is_ the goddess of love, tono," the gingery head said. Its voice carried a musical note of malicious expectation. "She loved Hephaestus…"

Another head of gingery hair to his left, this one with a luminous hazel eye. A replay of that expectantly teasing voice.

"And Ares…"

The mica-bright glitter of deceptive yellow-gold eyes to his right-

"And Poseidon…"

A flash of pale, barely freckled skin to his left-

"And Hermes…"

The tell-tale flutter of pale blue cloth to his right-

"And Dionysus…"

Tamaki wailed.

The twins' laughter was never as simultaneous as their speech. Their rolling chuckles and piquant giggles rose and fell, intertwining melodically as they clung to one another, a mishmash of laughter- of gingery brown hair- of pale blue and orange robes. _Artemis _and _Apollo_, the Host Club's appropriately circadian twins.

He was starting to wonder why he'd picked this theme.

Haruhi made a strange sound of recognition. He looked up, brooding thoughts forgotten.

An unfamiliar hand was lingering nervously on the edge of the door to the third music room.

Haruhi smiled at it. "Oake-san, I've never seen you here before," she commented guilelessly.

From her hesitation, it seemed as though the girl was considering escape. Only one foot was only through the door, and that, barely. Beside her in that sliver of visible hallway, he saw a flash of light hair.

Tamaki felt the familiar call of gentlemanly duty.

If asked, Lucie would have insisted that he'd moved with inhuman speed.

She was not asked.

He clasped her tentative hand in his with own. Behind her, somebody squeaked.

She looked terrified.

She looked _beautiful._

Smooth dark hair, pulled over one shoulder in a shining cascade- not thick, but as undeniably lustrous as the porcelain complexion of the face that it framed.

There was something that he couldn't put his finger on- something about her round face and her round eyes- something about those rosy cheeks and rosy lips-

The gauzy opalescent bubble of his thoughts popped- a paradise of euphoria blossomed once again in his chest- he suddenly, absolutely, _inarguably_ understood-

She looked _French._

"_Ah! Mademoiselle, __vous êtes plus belle que les étoiles!__"_ he exclaimed, exalted. _"Bienvenue, mon petite lapin!_ _Mille fois bienvenue pour vous!"_

The girl blinked.

"…Ah, uh-_ M-merci beaucoup, Monsieur _Suoh_,"_ she stuttered, looking- quite understandably- baffled. Her French was slighting lilting; musical, but slanted with an unfamiliar accent. _"Vous aussi êtes belle comme les étoiles, je suppose que?"_

The starry-eyed male beauty in question went off into- exceptionally French- ecstasies of joy.

Lucie giggled.

_(Dolls and Despots)_

_End Note: I promise it'll get more exciting. Things may be picking up slowly, but they'll reach whiplash speeds. _

_Also: Writing Tamaki is simultaneously super fun and incredibly nauseating. I wrote 'the healing prayers of my apostles of love', looked at it, knew that it was 100% Tamaki, and promptly wanted to vomit._

_I chose one of his French phrases by typing 'Ridiculous French compliments' into Google. It was this one: _

"_Mademoiselle, __vous êtes plus belle que les étoiles!__" _

_It means "Miss, you are more beautiful than the stars!" _

_Seemed Tamaki -approved, fo' sho'._

_The__** others**__:_

"_Bienvenue, mon petite lapin!" means "Welcome, my little bunny!" (Calling someone a bunny or a kitten in French is complimentary.)  
>"Mille fois bienvenue pour vous!" means "A thousand welcomes to you!"<br>"Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Suoh." is, obviously, "Thank you very much, Mister Suoh."  
>"Vous aussi êtes belle comme les étoiles, je suppose que?" is "You are also as beautiful as the stars, I guess?"<em>

_Blargh. _

_Please review! This is my first piece of Ouran fiction and it's rather ambitious; I want to be absolutely certain that everything is comprehensible._


	2. Lithotripsy x Cracked China

_**Note:**__ Oh look, it's __**WandererRaen**__! _

_But of course. I'm really not sure if I've ever had as avid a fangirl as you, you funny, funny thing. _

_Lucie's alienation was something that I felt was integral; I've never understood this whole 'suddenly popular' fanfiction phenomenon. Because, well, that's not how it works in real life._

_Can you honestly imagine trying to join a school like Ouran? A school in which your socialization has more to do with who your parents and grandparents are than who you are? Where the existing social cliques have full-on histories and internal politics? 'Cause yeah: That's what you'd get. Ouran's graduating class has had its friends for years and its acquaintances for generations. The window to that particular social circle would be decidedly shuttered to newcomers. (Especially non-beneficial newcomers. Let's be realistic.) _

_Lucie's not even their countrywoman. What could they possibly talk about with her? _

_Also: I will gladly accept that paper bag. (But I'm not so sure you'll want it back. You're not that dedicated of a fan, are you?) Taking into careful consideration the temperament of the __**other **__original character in this, I can decisively attest that Tamaki's dramatics are only going to get worse._

_So much fucking worse. _

_Edit: __**PetraPan**__! Good to hear I got Tamaki right; I was a little worried. My original characters tend to be a little… darker than our 'King', haha. _

_Double-Edit: So happy! Hello, __**KissedByMoonlitNights**__! I'm glad my characterization is good- hopefully it stays that way!_

_Triple-Edit: I've forsaken you to listen to __**Disney**__ soundtracks. Forgive me. _

_Quadruple Edit: I'm terrible at this timely updating thing and this chapter has more French in it. __**Translations **__**in the end note!**_

**_Rating: _**_Mature because I swear like a motherfucking sailor and so do some of my characters._

_**Synopsis:**__ Devils. Kings. Puppeteers. Younger brothers; Family politics. Two years later, the Host Club persists- and Tamaki insists on visiting. But this year, Ouran has adopted a new pet- and she comes with more than instant coffee. __**Spoilers! **__TamakixOC, KyoyaxOC _

_**Disclaimer:**__ Hatori Bisco is the sole proprietor of the __**Ouran High School Host Club **__manga series; Viz Media claims partial ownership of the __**Ouran High School Host Club **__animated series in North America. I am not affiliated in any way with either party._

_**Dolls and Despots **_

_**Episode Two:**__  
>Lithotripsy - Cracks in the China<em>

Kyoya Ootori was an opportunist by trade, not nature.

He couldn't comprehend choosing to be anything else; there was nothing else as lucrative. He'd considered other options; weighed them, measured them, and found them wanting; and, in the measuring and considering, he'd already been an opportunist, because opportunism was, by the nature of the philosophy that it employed, the ultimate business policy.

_'Shadow King, eh?'_

It wasn't as though he was secretive about it.

People just provided him with so many _opportunities_.

And, when there were none evident, he made opportunities for himself.

So that was what he was doing.

Kyoya Ootori was making opportunities.

Kyoya Ootori was protecting his investments.

Kyoya Ootori was utilizing the misconceptions of others.

The greatest- and most profitable- of these being the assumption that he was competing with his brothers for the title of successor to Ootori Medical.

This was, in fact, a misconception.

The actions of Akito and Yuuichi concerned him very little.

Akito, the middle son; a nepotistic traditionalist lacking the ambition to benefit he who was foolish enough to attempt usurpation.

Yuuichi, the eldest and heir apparent; power enough to appease the patient, but to pursue his position was to miss the greater opportunity.

Kyoya, the youngest son; opportunist by trade.

Kyoya Ootori was pursuing the only compelling opportunity available to him, competing with the only true competitor he had been provided:

Yoshio Ootori, elder, patriarch, and economic powerhouse.

His father.

Kyoya had always resembled his father- and not just physically.

Their minds worked, clicked and whirred, stacking and filing and weighing and measuring and being _lucrative_. Just the same. His father had years of experience. Kyoya was younger; more attractive.

There was something to be said for that.

There was something to be said for misconceptions.

What he needed now was a father's misconception. Difficult. Very difficult. Too similar. Too much the same.

In that sameness, he saw- heard- _felt _his father's changing focus.

He saw Fuyumi, his sister, disappearing from the grounds at nights; saw to it that she was discreetly recovered. Recovered without his father knowing.

Kyoya Ootori protected his investments.

Lucrative or otherwise.

Fuyumi's divorce had been sudden, seemingly unheralded. The family had been thrown into an uproar; relations between Ootori Medical and Shido Industrial were strained, possibly beyond repair.

Allegations, calmly delivered, calmly received; boardroom divorce talk, so much like tennis. Allegations, batted back and forth with intense focus and leisurely style. Cold, impassive allegations. Unprofitable relationship. Interpersonal incompatibility. Subtext: No heir.

The Shido family had needed an heir; Fuyumi had taken too long. Without an heir, a mixing of the bloodlines, the contract was still tenuous.

His brothers had been shocked; disbelieving.

His father had been furious.

Ultimately, only he had seen it coming, and he'd kept his mouth shut.

Always notable but rarely noticeable; the youngest Ootori.

He'd seen her aimless and haphazard eagerness to be a good wife. He'd noticed the increasing frequency of her appearances at home. He'd noted the increasingly marked distance between husband and wife; noted the mild-mannered and non-physical affection.

He'd known about her commoner outings with Tamaki; knew she'd looked at him and Haruhi and _longed_.

He knew. He'd seen it. He'd watched a little spark of something unrecognizable die in her eyes when she'd sat with Tamaki after there simply _was_ no more Haruhi and Tamaki; he'd watched her hold his hand gently between hers as the blonde stared at the floor, too numb for his usual dramatics.

Like the Suoh heir, Fuyumi had never measured, had never calculated, had never considered. Fuyumi Ootori did not operate with profit in mind. Fuyumi just… _did_. She obliged, and worked her way around her obligations.

And now, the fire of the Ootori – Shido controversy had cooled.

Fuyumi was no longer a liability.

Fuyumi was an exchangeable asset once more.

He saw the click; heard the whir; watched his father's eyes flick surreptitiously from his daughter to another profitable match.

To another obligation.

A foreign obligation, this time. No need to make the same mistake twice.

Subtext: Outsource. Remove liability by incurring it. Profitable but invisible. Most lucrative. Most sensible.

It was a high-risk investment; a potentially lucrative gamble rooted in Fuyumi's disgrace.

He did not support this course of action.

Kyoya Ootori protected his investments.

Kyoya Ootori's investments were best protected nearby.

He and his father had a conflict of interest. His father couldn't be made to see that. It was a threat to his son's aspirations. Kyoya needed a father's misconception.

Difficult. They were too similar.

A couplet of jarring vibrations. He had his phone out and open before the lesser parts of his brain had even processed what the vibration was.

Text message. Tamaki's happy-go-lucky rambling hiragana. Host Club nostalgia.

Kyoya Ootori saw an opportunity.

He was, by trade, an opportunist.

_(Dolls and Despots)_

Roses. Roses, in multitudes. Fine lace- delicate silk, luminous sateen, here and there a touch of lush velvet-

Lucie was very happy.

It was Monday evening in the Host Club, and the costumes of the hosts were no less intricate than the ostentatiously scalloped pink ceiling or the complex, glittering visual crescendos of the many chandeliers.

She wasn't certain if the theme was meant to be Edwardian or Victorian, if it was meant to reflect some sort of fairy tale world, or if there was even a theme at all.

What she was certain of was her enjoyment of it on several levels.

Lucie liked to sew. In the few instances that she'd had the time, she'd made duvet covers, curtains, even, on occasion, clothes. She was intimately familiar with fabrics of all kinds- familiar enough to notice and appreciate that the Host Club used only the _best_ of all kinds.

She enjoyed seeing Tamaki Suoh's lean frame resplendent in cream and navy silk twill- enjoyed the line of pearly buttons from throat to belt-buckle, standing primly in place of a usual tie. She enjoyed seeing his face, free from a shiny head of golden blond hair smoothed elegantly back. She enjoyed sitting on elegantly carved wood and soft pink cotton sateen, drinking aromatic tea with him and her schoolmates, for once- for the first time- really feeling like a part of Ouran.

She enjoyed that Tamaki gave her special attention.

She was aware that it was beginning to bother the other girls- his quick slips into French, fast-paced excitable chattering and high-flown expressions of adoration- but did nothing about it.

Lucie could be a little bit selfish. She knew that. She felt distantly guilty, but immediately euphoric.

She felt _special_.

No one had made her feel special in a very, very long time.

As much as she loved her roommate, the very reasons that she loved her were the ones that left her feeling decidedly grounded. Feeling normal.

Jordan wasn't one to be swept away on the tides of romance- never one to panic or swoon, never one to back down, and never one to turn a blind eye when things were going right _or_ wrong, she was a woman firmly grounded. It wasn't that she lacked an imagination- far from it.

It was that the grips of her imagination had a far more potent hold than the petty interferences of everyday life; Jordan was much too used to drawing the line between fantasy and reality. It was something that could be, and often was, very helpful, but it was also something that stole the magic out of the ordinary.

Jordan solved problems; unfortunately, she sometimes mistook fantasies for problems.

Lucie had kept her discovery of the Host Club- of Tamaki- to herself for that very reason.

She _knew_ it was impossible. She _knew _it was stupid. She _knew_ it was probably going to hurt her in the end.

She didn't care.

She felt _special_, and she wanted to _keep_ feeling special.

She hadn't felt special in a very long time.

Warm, lively blue eyes flickered towards her. A stunning smile. A rose, seemingly from nowhere. A distant "_Vous êtes perdu dans les pensées de moi, Princesse?"_

It all looked so genuine. She could almost believe it. She _wanted_ to believe it.

She smiled, looking down automatically- she hadn't broken that habit yet- and said something vague. She felt warmth rising to her face; heard the uncomfortable titters of the other girls.

Watched Tamaki turn, lightning-fast to appease them; knew, with an oddly dreamy jolt, that he was, on some level, aware that he was being unfair to them.

It was a strange realization in and of itself; Lucie was not a highly observant person. She could be, if required, but she'd made a habit of taking things at face value. She didn't notice things she wasn't looking for. She'd been accused of gullibility on many occasions.

She was usually happier for not noticing. For not knowing.

She wasn't sure how she felt about knowing this.

The feeling of absolute conviction had passed, leaving the thought tenuous and debatable, but the promise and danger of it wasn't lost on her; if Tamaki _knew_ he was favouring her, than things were different-

But different in a way she couldn't quite grasp. It was almost… too promising. Too encouraging a thing. Dangerous.

It was all too easy to get attached to someone who just _seemed_ attached.

Her stomach twisted. She looked down again, distantly noting that the nail polish on her left thumbnail was chipping up the side.

Suddenly, a long finger under her chin, pulling her face up. Too close; bright eyes and blond eyelashes over an almost coquettish smile. _"Ne pas aller là où je ne peux pas vous suivre, Princesse. Qu'ont-ils là que je ne peux pas vous offrir?"_

Another twist, more painful than the last.

'_Oh, no. Don't do that. Don't say that.' _She forced a smile at him. He bought it without question.

She was suddenly irritated; helplessly so. It seemed wrong that he could promise so much while understanding so little.

She resisted the urge to look down again, instead glancing over at the other tables. At her underclassmen, sitting at separate tables but somehow still a unit; at a bespectacled face full of angry, anxious reproach; at a short crop of dark hair and a laughing mouth. At the gingery heads of the twins, bowed together in confidence; at a sly glance in her direction; at a sudden, devious smile. At Haruhi Fujioka, elfin drag-king of class 3-A; at a small group of girls who knew but simply didn't care.

Momoko Tamiya was one of them.

Lucie looked at the Host Club.

She was irritated at herself now, too.

She could almost hear her roommate's exasperation.

It _was_ a host club; she was sitting _in_ a host club.

_With _a host.

She'd actively sought out the insincere affections of a host and promptly allowed herself to be swayed by them.

_I'm really sorry, honey, but you kind of asked for it. Wait- actually, you __**literally**__ asked for it. _

Low and expressive words, spoken wryly.

She grimaced without meaning to; Jordan's voice had come to her so easily, and so clearly, that the blonde may as well have been shaking her head at her from the other side of the table.

The other girls jumped, presumably from her sudden change in expression.

Abruptly, there was Tamaki, his face arranged in an angelic look of ever-deepening concern. _"Vous sentez-vous-"_

He stopped, staring over her shoulder.

She looked up at him, startled, and then turned.

The first thing she saw was a sharp flash of light on eyeglasses.

The second was dark, meticulous hair over a dark, meticulous suit.

The third was that thinly-veiled look of displeasure.

Lucie could only shiver with panicky confusion as she tried to understand why the dark eyes behind those glasses were settled on her.

_(Dolls and Despots)_

One Lucie Charlotte Oake, nineteen years old, five feet and two inches or one-hundred-and-fifty-seven-point-five centimetres tall; mesomorphic somatotype, typified by wide shoulders, wide hips, average to low body fat; generally, a woman with a pleasantly rounded physiognomy.

French doll facial proportions, circa 1850. Notable.

Artistic sensibilities, professionally inclined towards musicality; unofficially, a taste for aesthetics, most notably those involving textiles. Socially inhibited; relatively quiet, reserved nature. Strong desire for approval. Demonstrable naivety; extreme susceptibility to romanticism, tempered by anxiety.

Canadian citizenship; a Quebec bilingual now pursuing trilingualism.

Kyoya had hit a potential snag, and despite the fact that it looked French, spoke French, and loved roses, it wasn't Tamaki.

He hadn't anticipated this.

He'd banked on Tamaki's continuing pliability; following the discontinuation of his relationship, the Suoh heir had sunk into a state of quiet resignation regarding matters of love. It wasn't something that Kyoya enjoyed seeing in him, but it afforded him a potential resolution to a problem that he couldn't afford to ignore.

Whether fortunate or unfortunate, Tamaki had started to rise out of his slump; it wasn't attachment yet, no- but it was budding _preference_, and he couldn't allow that.

He saw a tiny sliver of something steely in that quiet girl; the music department's foreign pet seemed to carry with her a very small streak of possessive noncompliance. He'd seen it in her posture; the slightly distant way she communicated with the other girls; the low flashes of jealousy when the object of her attentions turned away from her, recognizing that he had once again neglected the others. It was nothing major; an underdeveloped sense of entitlement, at worst. But it was there, and it boded ill for his plans.

Like the Snow White who smiled and simpered before ordering her step-mother forced into hot iron shoes, he suspected that Miss Oake needed only a slight and a knight to bring that steely undercarriage out full-force.

She was still without a knight, but if he was unlucky, the always-chivalrous Tamaki would gravitate towards that niche.

A slight-

That _he_ could provide her.

_(Dolls and Despots)_

It was Thursday evening.

Lucie was feeling a little _rough_, for lack of a better word.

She wasn't sleeping well.

She tended not to sleep well when she was under stress.

She couldn't understand how or why things had changed so quickly- in an instant, her life had gone from steadily improving- almost content- to-

Well,_ sinister_.

It was the only word she could think of describe it. It wasn't _dangerous- _she really had no reason to feel like it was.

It wasn't _hostile. _Not quite.

It wasn't _menacing._

At least, not openly.

It was just _sinister_.

Her school life was shadowed by an oppressively sinister presence formally known as Kyoya Ootori.

Every attempted visit to the Host Club was interrupted by the silent and sidling introduction of a thin-lipped and insincere smile. A slim hand would shoot out between her and Tamaki's table, quietly redirecting her- those glasses would flash-

He seemed to come from nowhere; she'd check the room for him before coming in and _he'd just be there anyway_.

Lucie Charlotte Oake was well and truly creeped out.

She couldn't even feasibly complain about it; he hadn't actually _done_ anything but separate her from Tamaki.

Be overly accommodating.

Smile too much.

Speak cryptically.

When it came to the last one, she was terribly afraid that she just kept missing the point.

He tended to talk with inappropriate crispness about things that were otherwise completely mundane. About travelling. About the difficulties surrounding passport renewal whilst in a foreign country. About the differences between North American and Japanese culture. About the trouble those differences caused. It was always the same; his voice cold, his smile warm, his subject… bland.

Sometimes, she thought she had it- almost got what he was saying- because Jordan talked like that sometimes- usually when she had play nice with someone she disliked. It was the similarity of tone and expression that made her nervous.

But Kyoya wasn't speaking English. Unlike Jordan, who spoke in clipped sentences and smiled insincere smiles and clenched her jaw in Lucie's native language, Kyoya spoke in clipped-smiling-clenching Japanese and she couldn't tell what was cultural and what was not.

He would say a word; she would remember one meaning, but know that others existed.

She never knew if she was actually hearing what he was trying to say.

Or if he was trying to say anything at all.

She glanced towards Tamaki's table longingly. The dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-suited- generally, just _dark_, she thought apprehensively- young gentleman beside her deftly poured her another cup of tea and threw her what was either a reserved or insincere smile; she just couldn't _tell _with him.

"You've checked the expiry date of your passport, I assume?" A crisp smile behind crisp words. "I believe we were agreed on the necessity of averting potential disaster."

She had no idea what that was supposed to mean.

She smiled awkwardly.

She thought his terse smile looked vaguely annoyed. She wasn't quite sure.

A pair of voices resounded behind her. She flinched.

This was the part she hated the most.

The twins had had nothing to do with her when she'd first started to attend- on both the Friday and the Monday, she'd caught them glancing in her direction, but they'd never approached; they'd done nothing, said nothing.

With the sinister mood had come the twins.

She didn't know what their relationship to her dark companion was, only that they seemed intent on making her life hellish- playing their _games_, switching from bright, insincere sweetness to off-hand cruelty and disdain in an instant- and every time Tamaki came dashing to her rescue, Kyoya would interfere.

Like meagre candlelight battling pervasive darkness, Tamaki's vehemence always flickered and cooled into petulance under an assault of clipped, crisp logical reproach.

_"Is it not rude to interfere when the twins are obliging a new customer, Tamaki?" _the mouth that reprimanded would ask. "_The hierarchy of the Host Club is primarily dictated by individual designations; you cannot feasibly expect there to be no competition between hosts." _

She didn't understand.

It sounded like something Jordan would say, but Jordan said things like that when she was absolutely serious _and_ when she was talking her way out of trouble.

Or_ into_ trouble.

Two heads of red hair poked over the carved wooden back of the loveseat, smiling identical mischievous smiles, flashing identical white teeth.

She struggled, looking back and forth between them, trying to keep up the subtle shifts in expressions passing between them, with the nigh-telepathic conversation they seemed to be having- seemed to _always_ be having.

"Our toy is awfully boring today, Hikaru," the one to the left said.

"Mm. I hate boring things, Kaoru," the one to the right said.

They turned bright eyes on her- drifting ominously closer- speaking in unison.

_"And how **is** our toy today, hmm?"_

She smiled nervously, slouching lower into her seat in a vain attempt to distance herself from the wickedly bright smiles closing in around her. She could hear a low voice, deceptively soothing, cutting through higher, louder protests; Kyoya, disarming her rescuer, just as he had yesterday and the day before.

The twins weren't smiling anymore; It was a look of bored contempt.

Suddenly, on one, and then other, a bright flash of terrible inspiration. They leaned in again, towards her, went to speak-

"Why is _everything_ in this room pink?"

Low, dulcet, decidedly unimpressed.

All three of them looked up.

White light reflecting off of pink walls turned white blonde hair and yellow skin deceptively rosy, but the expression was unmistakeable.

Jordan Eleanor Earthy looked spectacularly revolted.

Lucie gawked.

Jordan looked back, her repulsed expression beginning to give reluctant way to amusement.

"How- When- Why are you here?" she babbled, bolting forward in her seat, concerns forgotten. The blonde laughed and twisted her eyebrow wryly and made a dismissive little gesture with her index finger.

"A little birdy told me that there was a room at Ouran Academy where roses and candy flow like water and effeminate boys wax poetic, and I thought, gee, I wonder if Lucie knows about this? Come to think of it, I wonder where she's been going for hours after school…?"

Lucie felt the heat rush to her face.

Jordan tapped a mockingly speculative finger against her chin and smiled; her eyes began to wander.

Embarrassed or otherwise, with the curious faces of the twins directed away from her and an unreadable intense dark host casting those cold eyes elsewhere, Lucie found her own gaze meeting that of a puzzled but resiliently cheerful blond.

He smiled warmly at her.

For no reason she could express aloud, Lucie was suddenly incredibly relieved.

_(Dolls and Despots)_

Quantification was automatic.

Female, between twenty and twenty-five, five feet and four inches or one-hundred-and-sixty-two-point-six centimetres tall; atypical ectomorphic somatotype, wide shoulders, thin hips, low body fat; long, narrow bones made irregular by an unusually sinuous profile- in commoner's terms, a '_Barbie Body.'_

Androgen-impacted- or _androgynous_- skeletal structure; estrogen-impacted body fat distribution.

Rare curves on the physiologically curveless.

He knew what he was seeing. He didn't _have_ to quantify.

Fastidious attention to detail; an immediate and definite taste for symmetry and measured asymmetry; a recognizable, openly advertised perfectionist.

Hair, bleached- deceptively dark at the roots, but still within the colour range; short, almost skin level at the base of the neck, short at the crown, shaped around the ears, graduating to a longer fringe- textured and styled, parted precisely at the left peak of the hairline; this was meticulous, wilfully androgynous hair.

He already knew; he knew what this was.

Makeup, fastidious- mathematical in application, a purposeful series of downwards-moving symmetrical lines in flesh colour and otherwise; pale skin made paler by carefully applied foundation, flushed by carefully applied blush, luminous by carefully applied highlighter, striking by carefully applied eyeliner- precise, symmetrical black wings under precise, symmetrical black lashes, continuing that pointed motion down a long nose towards a mischievous mouth- a long, defined jaw- a pointed chin- a long, thin neck.

Cat's eye was the term; cat's eye makeup. Sharp, flirtatious, coquettish, and imperious. Paradoxical, on a face like that.

Wilfully alluring, pointedly watchful.

The sharp, immediate look of interest she sent him from under those winged lids informed him that this was not a woman simply who _did not get_ the point.

He'd miscalculated.

Lucie wasn't looking for a knight; she was looking for a prince.

_This_ was Lucie's knight.

_(Dolls and Despots)_

_End Note: Still not ecstatic with how this turned out, but it's alright, I guess._

"_Vous êtes perdu dans les pensées de moi, Princesse?"means "Are you lost in thoughts of me, Princess?"  
>"Ne pas aller là où je ne peux pas vous suivre, Princesse. Qu'ont-ils là que je ne peux pas vous offrir?" means "Do not go where I cannot follow you, Princess. What do they have there that I cannot offer you?"<br>"Vous sentez-vous-" means "Do you feel-"; Tamaki's in the midst of asking her if she's alright. _

_**No Evidence Available**__ will see an update soon, by the way! (Don't murder me!)_


	3. Primum Non Nocere x Real Boy

_**Note: **__Here we go again! And now things get interesting._

_By which I mean funny and obnoxious. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit __**creepy.**_

_Yes, you will love Jordan, __**WandererRaen**__. Why? Because this bitch right hurr has a refined taste for fucking with people- specifically, people who fuck with her interests. And I'd actually prefer it if you'd point out errors. I fix them as soon as I notice them. I'm a bit of a (gigantic) perfectionist. _

_On the same note, analyze away! You noticed that Kyoya's perspective is written very particularly- generally fragmented, with repetition falling mostly on a few whole clauses- and yes, that was and is intentional. Like I said in the first chapter- __**Dolls and Despots **__is both ambitious and experimental for me. _

_I'm trying to warp the narrative around each character's personality, and I hope I'm managing it. _

_Congratulations on your graduation, by the way! (I know that was in your __**NEA**__ review, but this seems likely to be updated first.) _

_Thank you to __**Bloody-WhiteRose97DM**__, too, for your lovely review! _

_Edit: If I ever garner any artistic skill, I'm going to make posters for __**DD**__. I know how bizarre that sounds, but the relationships between the characters call up such awesome visual representations._

_Double-Edit: __**PetraPan**__, my love! See? She's finally here. Now shit gets interesting- and __**terrible**__._

_**Spirit-of-the-Rain**__- Thank you! The only thing I love more than getting reviews is getting intelligent, informative reviews; I'm always trying to improve my writing, and I'm glad my style has caught your interest! And ohh, that line- I was originally conflicted about it, but I think that Kyoya should have odd little moments of subtle whimsy (a la: Snow White) because of, well, years of exposure to Tamaki._

_Character mysteries! __**So**__ happy you brought that up! I was getting a bit worried that no one was picking up on it, and I didn't want to make it too obvious; I'm trying to imbue both Lucie and Jordan with elements of realistic mystery rooted in the very real world of 'we've been through hell together'- like an inside joke, an internal scar is very private thing, hence the mystery of it to outsiders. (Bad memories are also the ones we generally suppress, making them vague to the reader, too.)_

_Triple-Edit: I have a big ol' whack of notes on this story because it's not really like anything I've written before. Browsed them for clarity. Found:_

_**Tamaki Suou: (WRITE WITH EXCEPTIONAL STUPIDITY AND MELODRAMA. NAIVETY VISION, GO! Occasional insight. Loves to make others happy.)**_

_**Rating: **__Mature because I swear like a motherfucking sailor and so do some of my characters._

_**Synopsis: **__Devils. Kings. Puppeteers. Younger brothers; Family politics. Two years later, the Host Club persists- and Tamaki insists on visiting. But this year, Ouran has adopted a new pet- and she comes with more than instant coffee.__**Spoilers! **__TamakixOC, KyoyaxOC_

_**Disclaimer: **__Hatori Bisco is the sole proprietor of the__**Ouran High School Host Club**__manga series; Viz Media claims partial ownership of the__**Ouran High School Host Club**__animated series in North America. I am not affiliated in any way with either party._

_**Dolls and Despots**_

_**Episode Three:  
><strong>__Primum Non Nocere - No Need To Be A Real Boy_

Though remarkably intelligent and, on occasion, remarkably observant, Tamaki Suoh was not usually attentive enough to realize the implications of what was going on at any given moment.

Tamaki did not think about such arbitrary things as _being_ remarkable. As far as he was concerned, his own existence was remarkable.

In being the most naturally remarkable thing in the room- a creature of such divine beauty as to make gods weep and grown men tremble- and in being in the company of a thing almost equally remarkable- a clear-eyed beauty from whose lips fell the song-like language of paradise- he was not currently processing any outside information.

Beside him, those glorious hazel eyes- paintbrush-speckled irises, green and gold, colours of life and beauty, swimming in a mirror-white pool rimmed with ebony fronds-

Lucie laughed tea through her nose when he said that.

Behind him, a decidedly karmic scenario.

He did hear them, very distantly, idly processing their words in a part of his brain which was rarely, if ever, fully active: the inestimable _C.S.C_., his expertly hidden Common Sense Centre, an overgrown emergency hatch in a flowering utopia- a utopia prone to frosts, but nonetheless resilient against the harsh scrapings and grindings of reality- underused, underestimated, and, ultimately, absolutely necessary.

That is, he only used it when absolutely necessary.

Unfortunately for his best friend, he did not deem this particular moment in time a moment of absolute necessity.

Had he, at that moment in time, been given a chance to submit an opinion to Tamaki of his unconscious decision-making, Kyoya Ootori would have expressed vehement reproach.

Of course, at a later moment, Kyoya Ootori would carefully edit the details of his situation to make it appear less well-deserved.

As it was, both parties at both tables began a beautifully choreographed social ballet.

Something had loosened in Lucie's manner; like the knotted muscles of an anxious farm cat too used to sleeping in an old mare's stall, the last of her nervous silence and tight, neat manners had melted away in Jordan's presence. Though the other girl sat at another table, casting only the occasional amused glance and knowing look in her direction, the difference was palpable. She laughed more. She spoke more. She made mistakes.

When she made mistakes, she turned her own head in quick, embarrassed motions to see if Jordan had been listening.

To Lucie's warm security, Tamaki's dramatic romanticism had spiked in answer. He gesticulated. He deified. He eulogized.

Lucie laughed.

His dramatics redoubled in intensity.

Their half of the ballet spun and dipped and pirouetted in beautiful harmony.

The other half danced a much more complex dance.

In another universe, where their conflicting performances truly did waltz and twist and swing across a stage, critics raved over the building suspense of interlocking hope and tension that crackled throughout the theatre; articles in flowery twelve-point type littered newspapers; conversations over tea tables saw nothing else for months.

Theatre students and sociology graduates argued the correlation between art and life. Comparative essays were written. Post-essay-writing week drinks were had. Tattoos were gotten, many of them in illegible script.

It was a glorious moment in artistic history.

Unfortunately for Kyoya Ootori, the only one among the four who was not enjoying himself, _his _universe saw the event as an incredibly awkward moment in socialization- one that was simultaneously sweet enough to induce sympathetic diabetic coma and possessing of enough subtle menace to offset an insulin deficiency with adrenaline spikes and cold sweats.

He, of course, found himself a partner in the latter.

_(Dolls and Despots)_

Kyoya Ootori knew that the only thing that truly separated a threat from a bluff was the intelligence of the victim.

In knowing this, he knew that his problem had worsened significantly.

He had discovered, too late, that Lucie's Jordan was too intelligent to be bluffed; and worse, he was without the information necessary for effective threats.

Without the threat to support it, the bluff, in being called, became a weakness.

In his haste to subdue her, he had exposed himself.

He'd watched Lucie gravitate towards Tamaki; had moved to interfere.

Had been interfered with.

The game had started: he'd pointed out the impropriety of allowing a non-student, non-alumnus, non-faculty member on the Ouran campus after hours without previous notice or admission.

Black Bishop: 8C to G4.

It should have been over then.

Instead, she'd smiled, exposing luridly bright white teeth, and responded.

"Oh._ Well._ I'm afraid that was my mistake. My sincerest apologies. My compliments to your schooling; I'd been told that Ouran Academy produce a remarkably affable breed of adult, but it's not often I meet persons so able to compose pleasantries even in reproach. I must say, as a teacher myself, I am in awe of those able to produce an effect of such perfect sophistication. Oran's faculty has much to learn from your example. I'm sure you agree?"

Red Knight: G1 to G1.

He'd protested. That wasn't in the rules.

And the Red Knight, settled firmly, patiently waiting for the Black Bishop's next move, had just raised incredulous eyebrows and asked him why on earth he thought they were playing chess.

Check.

The Red Queen was already in the process of capturing the Black King; he, the last reliable piece on the board, was also ignoring the rules. Chess was more than a game of wit; it was a game of war.

But instead of capturing and subduing the Queen's Knight, he'd found himself staring down the point of a lance. He couldn't afford to stumble again; instead of allowing herself to be the outsider, she'd side-stepped and smiled, said without saying, and he knew how to read between the lines:

_You're a little bit rude to be representing your school, aren't you?_

And she was right.

He had an obligation to his background that she did not. He couldn't afford to have her return to work the next day and pervasively whisper about the misconduct of one of the Ootori sons- especially when he didn't have a whisper to use against her. Not yet.

And now, like that knight on the chessboard, her mouth moved in 'L' shapes- three down, two over- side-stepping and half-smiling and sidling up beside his with a rising note at the end, like a question.

And the question hanging on the edge of her mocking smile was no bluff.

He was impressed. She was a remarkably sharp opponent.

He almost regretted the necessity of ending the altercation.

Like sharks to blood in the water, the twins had a veritably magnetic relationship to nearby mischief. Something resounded in the air; like a triangular fin breaking surface tension, the shuffle of slightly out-of-sync footsteps and puzzled murmurs rising from their customers heralded their approach.

Unreliable pieces, the Rooks. One moment willing to sacrifice everything for their side of the board, the next apathetic, just two steps too far away to save the King and utterly uninterested.

Consistently inconsistent. He was relying on that.

They slinked around each side of her in perfect unison, mirroring smiles, mirroring gestures and postures, just as they always did when there was the promise of trouble lingering in the air.

Her head twitched slightly to the side, but her politely interested smile didn't so much as flicker. Her eyes under those fastidious wings and lashes, distrustfully inquisitive.

He tucked his hands into his pockets and smiled at her. "I do agree. Would you like me to contact the main offices to arrange a tour of the school? Provided it's not disruptive, I'm sure the faculty would be willing to allow the tour during school hours. After all, the basis of teaching is not in the material, but the methods."

Voice, soft, even, compelling. Reasonable.

Inarguable.

One twin's eyes lit up in understanding- an expressive glance and a moment later, the other's.

"Eh, Kyoya, we could take her to the headmaster's office now," the twin on the left piped indifferently.

"Mm, Hikaru's right; it's not too much trouble to go now," the twin on the left purred.

They began to close in, one curling an arm loosely around her waist, the other around her shoulders.

Jordan Eleanor Earthy looked decidedly unimpressed.

"It's after school hours," she pointed out drily. "Somehow, I sincerely doubt the Academy's reception desk is open for assistance at the moment, let alone the headmaster's office."

He got the subtext of that, too.

_Somehow, I think the faculty here is paid well enough that they don't have to put in extra hours on the off-chance of an unconnected someone needing something._

He chuckled. "Well then, I'm sure the twins would be perfectly willing to escort you to the main entrance; after all, the campus _is _rather large. It's quite easy to get… lost on the way out. If you provide me with a contact number, I'm sure I could arrange something for you."

He politely failed to mention that a contact number would also provide him a promising start to the background research he needed to rid himself of her interference more permanently.

The twins made faces. He scowled at them, wishing he could will them into obliging him.

Hikaru- if it _was_ Hikaru, Kyoya thought dispassionately; the twins were notorious for intentionally misleading people- rolled his eyes. "So what if she gets lost?" he asked callously. "I don't want to do something so boring."

On the other side of his increasingly bemused-looking opponent, the other twin murmured agreement.

Jordan's eyebrows were threatening to disappear under her bangs. He couldn't blame her; aside from the twins themselves, he had met very few people with the audacity to insult someone whilst hanging off of them.

"Hikaru-san," she started to the twin on the right.

The twin interrupted her, shoving away. "Eh, eh, I'm Kaoru, he's Hikaru."

Her eyebrows fell like a landslide, melting into a fast-settling expression of dry amusement. "Did I not just hear your brother refer to you as Hikaru?" she asked, hands on her waist. Kyoya considered her rigid pose with amusement as the left-hand twin echoed his brother's sentiments, a gingery head of hair snaking his way around her to his brother.

"Maybe you weren't listening right. It's okay, it's okay-"

"_We forgive you,"_ they chimed together mockingly.

Jordan Eleanor Earthy looked decidedly unimpressed.

"I know what I _heard_, but I can't speak for what's true. Do you not remember your own names?" she asked wryly. Kyoya couldn't help a twinge of triumphant delight at how quickly she'd dropped all pretence of delicacy.

The right-hand twin shrugged indifferently. "We do, but you wouldn't, so why does it matter?"

The left-hand twin mimicked his movement. "If you can't tell us apart, why should you know our names?"

Their newest victim practically emanated puzzled exasperation. Kyoya chuckled. "If you like, I can escort you-"

Her voice was soft, low enough to be distinctive against the backdrop of birdlike twitters in in the room, and the words carried through the room as only vain claims can- the thunderclap rolling out in the lull in conversation.

"I can tell you apart."

Kyoya stopped. The twins paused.

The nearby tables quieted and craned.

"Do you hear that, Kaoru?" the twin on the left started, sniggering.

"I did hear that, Hikaru," the twin on the right finished, joining in.

Even as the two wrapped their arms around each other's shoulders in preparation, Kyoya felt the pit of his stomach sink inexplicably.

The twins threw out their arms in unison. _"Then let's play the 'Which One Is Hikaru?' Game!"_

The girls back at their table broke from whispering to giggling. A couple then threw the inattentive visitor pitying looks; others shook their heads confidently, murmuring and laughing.

Jordan just looked puzzled at their reactions.

Kyoya was baffled.

The twins were moving, weaving in and out of each other in an obvious attempt at confusion, and she _wasn't looking. _She wasn't even trying to follow them with her eyes, keep track of one or the other- she was watching the spectators, shrugging at a concerned-looking Lucie, glancing over at him with a look that asked _'What the hell __**is **__this?_'

The twins stopped, twined arms, threw out their hands again. _"So? Which one is Hikaru?" _they asked.

She glanced up, lined eyes flickering over one face, then the other. She pointed at the left. "Well, you were originally Hikaru."

Two hands went out, flat and dismissive like stop signs. _"Wrong!"_

The corner of her mouth pulled outwards in a terse, baffled half-smile. "Okay. My mistake, failed the game, all cool. So you're Kaoru and _you're_ Hikaru, then," she corrected, pointing at each one respectively.

The left twin snorted, leaning closer to the right. "_Jeez_. What kind of idiot is she, Kaoru?"

The increasingly unimpressed blonde furrowed an eyebrow. "_Right. _I'm being fucked with. Honestly, I'd ask how the hell you expect me to tell which one's Hikaru when you won't tell me which one Hikaru was in the first place, but that seems to be the point here."

They laughed. _"Bin-go!"_

The right twin wagged a finger at her. "Like we said: Why should we tell you when you won't even remember? Eh, Hikaru?"

She snorted. "So I was right."

A mess of intertwined hazel eyes, red and freckles, the two waved dismissively at her. _"Eh, eh, get lost, commoner. Come back when you can beat the game. No lucky guesses!" _

Consistently inconsistent, the Black Rooks. Kyoya could always rely on them to be unreliable. He looked over at Tamaki's table.

Lucie's eyes met his. She looked nervous.

All was well.

All _should _have been well.

"Not meaning to press the point, but you betray yourselves pretty consistently. I'm still standing here when you talk to each other. So I can only assume that you're Hikaru," she said, pointing to the left twin, "and you're Kaoru, which means I was correct. And before you interrupt me, I _can_ tell you apart, whatever you might think."

The twins just looked at her, twined loosely in each other's arms.

She looked back at them impassively, arms crossed. "What? Is that was this is? Some sort of revenge scenario because you're bitter that most people are too fucking unobservant to tell that you're not identical? Cute." She shrugged and jerked her thumb towards the left twin. "Let's try this again; you, whoever you are, spend more time in the sun than your brother. You've both developed freckles from sun exposure, the distribution of which happens to have nothing to do with genetics. You've both got them across your cheeks, but _you_'ve got more on your nose, and they're darker. If you have eyes in your head, it's pretty fucking distinctive."

The room was silent.

Kyoya felt the ground slipping and moved to interfere. "I'm afraid I have to remind you that not only is that language inappropriate for this setting, you've also dealt a rather generous insult to the people within this room," he cut in crisply, quirking an eyebrow. "Do you mean to insinuate that you are more capable than those who've known the Hitachiin twins for more than five minutes?"

A smattering of laughter rippled through the customers. He carefully avoided Haruhi's inquisitive eye.

Jordan quirked an eyebrow of her own. "Yeah."

The smattering of laughter grew into full-blown tittering. Tense muscles, aching deep in his shoulder, began to unknot. He was still impressed, if a little disgruntled; it was an unusual day that he had to retaliate against one person so many times in succession.

He noted that his original assessment of her had been wrong.

Most people got the point.

She wasn't getting the point.

"Unfortunately, this has been a disruption of club hours that has gone on for far longer than is reasonably permissible," he said smoothly. "And you are still without campus permission or an escort. My offer still stands, but please, allow me to escort you to the exit."

She looked as though she was reluctantly considering it. A strangely weary sense of triumph swept over him.

Unfortunately, in art and in life, there is something to be said about losing on the edge of victory.

"We could escort her. Eh, tono?"

The Rooks, always unreliable.

"Mm. We're not busy right now. And tono could ask the Headmaster. He doesn't have to wait."

The knot returned. His stomach dropped. Kyoya turned, aghast, towards that fast-approaching bright smile.

_'No.'_

Those hands flew up. The eulogy began.

_'No, no, __**no**_.'

Jordan smirked at him.

He found out something new.

She was smart enough to know when to keep her mouth shut.

He found something else out, too.

Watching the twins turn their quickly recovered mischief on a Tamaki swept up in his own excitement, she turned to him, instead.

Her eyes flickered from him to Tamaki to Lucie and back again. Her expression was unsettlingly knowing.

"You should really ask your sister what _she _wants, you know."

As the Hitachiins looped their arms into hers and dragged her away, he finally felt the ground slip away.

Under it, he found paranoia.

_(Dolls and Despots)_

_End Note: No translations today! And this chapter's a little shorter than usual; sorry! It's also mostly just Kyoya. the twins and Jordan. More Lucie and Tamaki next chapter! And maybe finally some interactions with Satoshi and Yasuchika._


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